A Solid Word For Need
by Quinnzical
Summary: Sherlock Needs Something Only John Can Provide. John/Lock.


_A/N Challenge Fic. Write a D/s story line without sex. Game On. _

**A Solid Word For Need **

_By: Sophie Quinn_

_Twitter: Quinnzical__

The sounds of 221B Baker Street were all together common and frequent. Floor boards frequently creaked beneath the weight of pacing footfalls, pipes would moan and grunt with every turn of the tap, papers would shift and flutter, whispering against each other as they danced and fell to the carpet. Dishes would clatter within Mrs. Hudson's quaint little kitchen as snacks were prepared for the boys living above, and conversations would drone on both hushed and animated, as mysteries unraveled and realizations were exclaimed with boisterous and jubilant cries of delight.

It was startling, then, in the seconds following that precise moment when John's hand connected to Sherlock's cheek, that the flat would fall into utter silence. Nary a sound was to be heard, and at some point, John was certain even his heartbeat had ceased. He breathed in slowly and on the exhale, all life seemed breathed back into the room around them. Noise crashed in all at once as actions were noted, measured and carefully examined.

"You slapped me." Sherlock muttered, carefully tasting the words on his tongue as he brought a hand up and brushed his fingertips over the stinging flesh. His skin was several degrees warmer than it had been a moment ago, a fact that did not startle him in the least.

"Yes. Well, I had to. You wouldn't calm down and I had no other choice." He only took a moment to consider alternative methods of stopping Sherlock from destroying the flat in search of the hidden cigarette pack, slapping seemed a far better option than side swiping his skull with a cricket bat. John clenched his fist slightly to make an attempt at warding off the odd sort of tingling across his palm, settling to rubbing it over his trouser leg as he moved to sit back down in his chair. His discarded book was fetched in one smooth motion, his ear marked page flicked open with no more than a glance up at the lanky man still standing in the middle of the room. "Feel better?"

Sherlock considered it, his fingertips stalling slightly against the side of his face. He, for once, was at a loss of words to describe what exactly it was that had just happened. The cause and effect of it all didn't make any logical sense, and he was nearly stumbling through piecing together the puzzle bits. John had just slapped him, quite hard, and he should have been infuriated, or at the very least, annoyed, but instead he was... calm. Relaxed, even. As if all of the pent up jitters, twitching and uncomfortable crawling beneath his skin of relentless nicotine cravings were simply forgotten in lieu of the unexpected strike. "Yes. Why?"

"Why, what?" John asked, turning the page as he fought to split his attention between his flatmate and the rather engrossing novel he had been attempting to read [but always seemed to be interrupted, continually losing his place and having to re-read chapter after chapter just to recall where he left off, and if it wasn't so much trouble, he would really like to get past this particularly interesting paragraph].

"Why did that work?"

"Adrenaline, Sherlock. You know of it, a chemical release. Don't worry, you'll be tearing apart the flat again as soon as it wears off." He sighed a little, lowering the book to gaze up at him. "Try not to do any permanent damage this time? Mrs. Hudson is still a bit upset over the wall in your bedroom."

He could feel the detectives attentions shift towards the bedroom that lay just down the hall, his gaze snapping away and a half step taken in the general direction. If John was lucky, which was rarely, his flatmate would simply wander off to contemplate the periodic table and further incidents would be avoided all together. "But, John..."

John sighed, lowering his book to gaze up at him. With all the patience of a saint, he resisted his own desires to find somewhere else, much quieter, to read. "_Yes_, Sherlock?"

There was a half beat of silence instead of a response, and Watson watched the taller man struggling with whatever thoughts were currently whipping about like a typhoon through his massive brain. Sherlock turned suddenly and rapidly took up his violin, taking two long strides to stand before the window. He never finished his thought aloud, though there were subtle signs in his posture and rapid playing that betrayed how much it still weighed on his mind.

John merely shook his head and lifted his book back off of his lap. He glanced down at the page, narrowing his eyes a little in a wave of frustration as he lost his place, again, and would have to start over from the beginning of the chapter. Flipping back the pages, he started to read the familiar words for what seemed like the ninth time, listening to the slow, drawn out notes being bowed on the strings of a well-loved violin.

Frenzied days of crime solving kept any further discussion on the topic at bay. It hadn't even crossed John's mind as something that they could possibly talk about until the afternoon Sherlock was standing there in front of him, wielding that damned riding crop like a conductor's baton. He was swinging it about to a song that only seemed to exist in his mind, and John found himself watching in rapt curiosity. "What _are_ you doing?"

"Hm?" Sherlock distantly responded, his gaze flicking first to his flatmate and then to the crop being held aloft in his hand. He regarded it for a long moment, letting the flat end rest at his lips. "I was thinking about having a cigarette."

"Right. Well. You can't." He stated simply, flipping out the raspy pages of the newspaper before dropping his gaze to browse the headlines for anything interesting. Interesting, of course, containing the words 'mysterious' 'unsolved' 'puzzling' or 'authorities are baffled'. The best sorts of articles contained all of them, though those were rare. He had just started glancing over the obituaries for one of the key phrases when the newspaper in his hands was slowly lowered by the end of the riding crop. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Say that again." He said slowly, his sharp features painted with intrigue nearly as much as his voice. Sherlock lingered, challenging John in silence as he gazed down at him with a brow arched and his lips tightened ever so slightly.

"You can't." He sighed, lowering the paper completely before moving to fold and shove it away for later reading. It was impossible to accomplish anything productive when Sherlock had something on his mind, so he resigned himself to researching future cases for another time. "Look, you've been doing so well and it would be absolutely daft of you to give in now. Why do you even bother to smoke? You're known for being an intelligent man, you know the risks."

"It helps me think." Sherlock had the riding crop at his lips again, studying Watson a minute longer before he snapped it forward and presented his flatmate with the hilt. "Hold this a moment?"

John wrapped his fingers around the handle with a soft sigh, letting the crop rest lightly in his hand. It was lighter than he expected it to be, and though he knew differently, it felt as if one solid swing of it would snap it clean in half. He gave it an idle swipe, bouncing it slightly to test the weight of it in movement, and found his fingers tightening slightly. When he glanced up again to see what it was that had distracted Sherlock, he was shocked to see the taller man had produced a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his dressing gown and was in the process of lighting one. "Sherlock! I said no!"

It was a subconscious movement of his arm that brought the riding crop forward, a lightning fast swing of it towards Sherlock's hip in an effort to cease his actions. He hadn't considered the seconds that would follow the sound of leather against silk covered skin, and even as they passed him by, he only regarded them with momentary hesitation. Sherlock, on the other hand, almost seemed pleased. A realization that was startling in itself, and in the brief pause, John was unsure of himself. "Sherlock... I didn't mean...it was just in my hand.."

"I put it there, didn't I?" He raised a brow, the cigarette still dangling lightly from his fingertips as the sting at his hip made him suddenly aware of his own anatomy. He regarded John with a glance to the crop in his hand, slowly bringing the filter to his lips.

"Sherlock, don't you dare."

"What will you do, John? Certainly, you can't make me stop."

"Put it down." He found his voice oddly commanding, though he mused it was likely due to being laced with frustration, annoyance and just the smallest bit of anger at constantly being ignored, disregarded and disobeyed. He only had Sherlock's best interest at heart. He cared for him, damn it, and it was insufferable how easily the detective just threw it all aside to _think better. _ His hand tightened slightly around the hilt of the crop, a slow breath shifting past his lips.

Sherlock brought a lighter out of his pocket, poised to flick the flame into life when there was another swift, sharp, snap of leather on silk. John said nothing following the rapid movement, he only raised a brow at the hesitation in the taller man's fingers. He could see a shift in Sherlock's breathing, the cigarette between his lips bouncing slightly as he hitched in a gasp. John watched as he pocketed the lighter, and then the cigarette, a slow grin on his lips as he closed his eyes and drew in a slow, deep breath.

"Thank you, John." He muttered softly, taking the riding crop away from his flatmate before depositing it haphazardly beside the fireplace. John was left sitting in silence as Sherlock wandered out of the room, the quiet click of his bedroom door being shut resounding between the creak of floorboards. He listened for another moment, though he wasn't certain as to what he was listening for, before he leaned forward to fetch his discarded newspaper to continue browsing.

_Authorities Baffled. _

_Mysterious Circumstances Surrounding Puzzling Murder. _

_Remains Unsolved. _

"Sherlock?" He called out, glancing towards the hallway. "We have a case!"


End file.
